


little, and broken (but still good)

by e_va



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, TW: minor violence, literally just a lil family fic that i threw together im so invested in all these relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 13:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_va/pseuds/e_va
Summary: family: a triptych(or family: separate and overlapping.  They can't heal all your wounds, but they can help.)





	little, and broken (but still good)

**Author's Note:**

> !!! can't believe I'm writing Dragon Prince fic, but here I am. This one took me a little while, and I've read it enough that I'm kind of numb to errors. i am also sorry for any wonky formatting or grammar or sentences, etc. This was edited and posted in between classes.
> 
> While Amaya and Gren are only in a small portion of this fic, I am neither HOH nor deaf. I did might best to write them in a respectful and accurate manner, but I'm only human. If you notice any errors or if you just have some insight you want to share about where I can improve, please just let me know!
> 
> Special thanks to Chiwi and their fic [Vows of the Soul, Unbroken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050992) for encouraging me to work on a TDP fic too, as well as just being an awesome discussion partner !!

Moonshadow elf assassins aren’t supposed to fear _anything_.

Rayla understands it in theory.  They are elves, born with the primal magic of the moon coursing through their veins.  They must conduct themselves with the dignity that their noble heritage demands.  After all, they aren’t _humans_.

But in practice, Rayla has no _idea_ how to make it work.

She is afraid of so many things, even if she doesn’t show it.  She’s afraid of pain, of failing her training, and of disappointing her family. 

But right now, the thing she’s most afraid of is dying in this _damn_ forest, alone and unable to even fight back.

Her blades are lost.  She can’t remember the exact moments that they slipped from her hands, but one had been knocked from her grasp during the scuffle, and she must have dropped the other while she was fleeing.

It’s _humiliating._ Dropping your weapons is a rookie mistake, and sure, she’s still young, but she’s been training for going on eight years now.  She should know better.  The rush of embarrassment is so strong that it pierces through the haze of terror hits her in the chest with enough force to momentarily overwhelm her with the urge to bury her face in her hands.

And that is the _lesser_ of Rayla’s errors.

The woods of her homeland are not safe.  They aren’t as perilous as the human kingdoms, but even in Xadia the forests can be full of danger.  Magical creatures—not evil, but powerful, and both willing and able to tear you to shreds if you tread too deep into their territory.  And even here, there are criminals roaming the woods; for even among elves, there are those who would rather prey upon the weak than protect them.

Rayla had known this.  She’d learned it in school, and even if she hadn’t, Runaan had told her, just before they’d left.  He’d warned her.  _Take this seriously, we’re going to be training, and it can be dangerous out there._  

 _Then why are we going?_ she’d pouted, and Runaan had rolled his eyes. 

 _Nothing will happen to you if we’re together,_ he’d said sternly.  _Just don’t get separated from me.  A lone assassin is—_

“—a dead assassin,” Rayla groans to herself.  And here she is.  She’d let her curiosity get the better of her for just a second and she’d _lost Runaan_.  And for all that her elders told her of the potential that they saw in her, for all that they praised her skill with a blade and her instincts in battle, even she couldn’t defeat the entire crew of bandits—nearly eight in number—that had ambushed her as she searched for her mentor.

She had barely escaped with her life.  She had been lucky to escape at all, if that’s even the appropriate word for what she’d done.  They bandits are still nearby; she can _hear_ them.  They’re searching for her, combing the woods.  She’s only avoided being found by virtue of her small size and staying very, very still, and even that can only last her so long.  What they want, she doesn’t know.  She’d told them that she had almost nothing of value on her—it isn’t their way.  She is training to be an assassin, and Moonshadow elf assassins aren’t supposed to be tethered to this world by anything, not love and not money.

Maybe they’re so desperate that they’re willing to kill her over what little she does have.  Or more likely, they know that as an assassin, she is obligated to report them when she gets back to town.  And once that happens, an official party will be dispatched to bring the lawbreakers to justice.  They’re trying to _silence_ her.

They’re probably going to succeed.

She’s in bad shape.  There’s an ache in her side that gets worse when she moves.  Her right wrist is definitely broken, likely by whatever blow lost her one of her blades, which makes it useless to her. 

Moonshadow elf assassins can, supposedly, fight through broken bones.  Runaan had returned from a mission once, torn practically to pieces, and Rayla had later been told that he’d managed to walk back to safety on a broken leg, barely even limping.

But Rayla has no such control over how her body responds to pain.  Not yet.  It would be unwise, she decides, to risk it.  Better to plan to fight with only one hand than to try to use two and have her wrist fail her.

The footsteps are getting closer and Rayla sucks in a breath, desperately looking around for anything she can use as a weapon.  But there’s nothing—today was just supposed to be simple training, she didn’t bring any other weapons with her.  She just has her body—injured as it is—and the clothes on her back.

Oh.

What is it that Runaan is always telling her?

_A blade is not a weapon.  It is a tool._

_You are the weapon_.

 _“Ugh_ ,” she’d muttered in response.  “ _What the fu—what is that supposed to mean?”_

Runaan hadn’t bothered to dignify _that_ with a response.  He was big on that style of teaching: dropping ominous, vague phrases and leaving her to figure them out for herself.

She pushes herself up.  Her left knee protests under her weight, yet another injury.  Probably one of many that she’d missed in her adrenaline rush.  It hurts, but she gets to her feet—and just in time, too.

Two of the bandits push through the copse of threes and lock eyes with her. 

“Here!” the female elf shouts as her male companion charges.

Time to put Runaan’s advice to the test.

Rayla swears, partly in surprise and partly because there’s no one here to call her out on it, before greeting the male bandit with a kick between the legs.  He doubles over, white hair falling in front of his face, and Rayla kicks again—this time at the ground.  It sends up a spray of dirt, clouding the male elf’s vision.  He curses, rubbing at his eyes, disoriented.

A swift punch to the face with her good hand, and he’s out.

“Shit!” says the female elf, but Rayla is already closing the distance between them.  With injuries like hers, there’s no such thing as a strong defense.  Her best hope is to launch an overwhelming offense and take the enemy out before they can properly start to fight back.

And that?  That, Rayla might be able to manage.  The bandits are poorly trained, and it shows.  The only real advantage that they have on her is size and numbers.

The woman is slightly more skilled than her male counterpart, but when Rayla launches herself at her with a flying kick, she still falters.

Rayla’s boot connects with her stomach, and the woman heaves in pain.  Rather than let her own kick knock her to the ground, though, Rayla twists around, using the bandit’s own body to give her the boost she needs get _up_ and lock her legs around the woman’s neck and squeeze _tight_.  It’s hard to keep from being bucked off with only one good hand to stabilize herself, but somehow, miraculously, Rayla manages it.  She tightens her hold, trying to find the thin line between cutting off her enemy’s blood flow without crushing the windpipe—bandit or not, Rayla doesn’t want to become a killer over _this_.  After a couple moments, the female bandit’s struggles slow, and then she collapses to the ground, unconscious.

Rayla lands on her feet.

She did it! Rayla resists the urge to laugh in victory.  It was hard, but she _did_ manage it.  She heaves in a deep breath.  Maybe she really _can_ make it out of this!

Which is why it’s rather unfortunate that when she spins around, light on her feet with elation, she is—despite all her combat training—immediately hit in the face.

The backhand knocks her to the ground, setting her world spinning so violently that she finds herself unable to set in straight again.  She blinks, trying to clear the stars from her vision as she staggers back to her feet.

She never makes it, though.  Instead she’s hauled up to the tips of her toes when the bandit who’d struck her—a sky elf, far larger than his compatriots—grabs her by the throat and decides to dangle her up at eye level.  She struggles, futilely scrabbling at the elf’s hand, but she can’t get any traction with the ground, can’t find anything to give her that last bit of leverage that she needs to break free.  And behind the bandit holding her, she realizes with no small degree of helplessness, are the other five.  Even if she breaks free, there’s no way she can fight them all off.  Not like this.

She’s going to die here.

Realizing it isn’t the same thing as knowing it.  Earlier, injured and outnumbered, she had known it.  Known that objectively, her odds were poor. 

But now?  Now she’s realizing it, and that’s different.  It’s the ice-cold terror of swallowing poison, of knowing that your fate, now, is truly sealed.  There’s no averting herself from this path anymore, and it’s one that ends with her body being dropped here and left to rot in the woods.

Rayla thinks that she might pass out for a couple seconds, because next thing she knows, her back is colliding with a tree, and she feels something—no, several somethings— _crunch_.  Being thrown like that hurts, but she’s too far gone to make a noise now.  She feels like she can barely _breathe_ , even though, objectively, she can hear herself gasping for air, a strange, frightened noise that she can scarcely believe is coming from _herself_.  There’s something slick running down her face.  Blood.  And, embarrassingly, a couple tears too.

She’s crying.

Not just because she’s scared, but because she’s sad too.

The elf is stalking towards her.  His face and his body are all…contorted.  It makes him seem almost monstrous, terrifying and wrong in a way that she’s never known an elf to be.  It takes Rayla a moment to realize that it isn’t because he is actually a monster, it’s because the film of tears over her eyes is throwing her world out of proportion.

Unfortunately, it’s not enough to keep her from seeing him draw his sword.

Her vision is fading rapidly, and she wants to be panicked, but all that she can feel, inexplicably, is a sense of profound grief.

It’s strange, what dying does to you.  Rayla has always imagined that she would die courageously, protecting her homeland, that her last thoughts would be something selfless and noble.

But reality is a bit of a let-down.  She’s about to be gutted by a bandit, and she’s suddenly unafraid, sure, but it isn’t because she’s _courageous_.  She’s just too tired to feel anything other than helpless and sad.  And there is nothing grand on her mind in these last few moments.

Instead, she’s thinking about Runaan. 

He’s going to be _so_ disappointed in her.

She neither hears nor sees the bandit’s blade hit her.  She just gets hit by the spray of blood, warm against her cold skin.  She just smells it; the scent of copper filling the air, thick as smoke.

 _Huh_ , she thinks.  _Guess it’s true what they say.  You really don’t feel the killing blow_.

And then she pauses.  It is a bit odd, though, that she doesn’t feel any different at all.  After a couple long moments of not being in pain, and also being…not dead, she blinks her eyes open, trying to get the hazy world around her to stay in focus long enough for her to figure out exactly what’s going on. 

The sky elf in front of her isn’t holding his sword anymore.  It’s flat on the ground in front of him; he must have dropped it when he had fallen to his knees—wait a second, when had _that_ happened?

It doesn’t matter.  She should grab it.  She wants to grab the blade, to arm herself, but her body refuses to cooperate.   

It’s the glint of a familiar weapon that keeps Rayla still.  She knows it—those are Runaan’s arrows.

Huh.  What are they doing sticking out of this guy’s chest?

The bandit finally hits the ground, face-first, and the last coherent thing Rayla will remember is thinking, in a strange, floaty sort of way: _Oh. He’s dead.  
_

Everything else is…messy.

There’s Runaan, wielding his blades, which is strange, because for as long as she’s known him Runaan has always insisted that he preferred archery.  _I’m a better marksman than anything else_ , _and a true assassin always plays true to their strengths,_ he would say whenever she asked. 

Of course, Rayla has always suspected that that wasn’t true.  It’s her secret theory—that Runaan isn’t as indifferent to killing as he acts, that using a bow and arrow rather than a sword is his way of making it just a little bit easier for himself.  Runaan deserves a break, so Rayla thinks that that’s okay, even though—committed as he is to the way of Moonshadow assassins—Runaan would certainly disagree.

So Rayla will think, later, that maybe she’d imagined it—dreamed it up to fill in the blanks where she’d been too out of it from pain to remember properly.  She can’t think of any other reason why Runaan would use his swords when she could clearly see arrows still in his quiver.  Runaan is a cold, distant killer.  One who never lets his emotions get the better of him, who kills cleanly and who finds the touch of other people’s blood on his skin distasteful.  Rayla doesn’t know how else to reconcile that version of him with the memory of him tearing his blade from a bandit’s back, his hands painted crimson.

So it _must_ have been a dream, she’ll decide later.  But what an odd dream indeed.

Less odd is the memory of his hands on her face, his voice in her ear.  Saying her name and asking—someone bolder than her might call it _begging_ —her to stay conscious.  Here, the delineation between reality and dream becomes a little less clear.  Runaan has carried her before, and he must have done it again to bring her back.  It certainly wouldn’t be out of character for him to be concerned, either.  For all that Runaan is a good assassin, a good warrior, Rayla knows that his true strength is that he is a good _leader._ That is where he excels, above all else.  He believes in doing everything he can to protect the lives of those under his care, and it earns him the undying loyalty of all those who work with him.

As a result, his team has the lowest turnover rate of Xadia’s elite squads, and the times someone on it has been lost have been some of the lowest moments she’s ever seen from Runaan, even if he’s careful to maintain his stoicism in front of their leaders. 

So it would not be _strange_ for him to be concerned for her; it would be nothing he wouldn’t do for any other Xadian.  But at the same time, the ghostly sensation of someone cradling her head feels gentler than Rayla’s ever known Runaan to be.  All these facts considered together leaves her memory of the experience feeling deeply familiar and completely alien in equal measure, and Rayla finds herself unable to decide whether or not it’s more likely a fantasy or reality.

Secretly, she can’t help but hope that it was real, though she would never breathe word of _that_ to anyone.

 

 

Rayla wakes up with a throbbing headache.

But most importantly, she _wakes up,_  something that she hadn't expected but that fills her with relief anyways.  The room is dim, orange light from the setting sun filtering through the curtained window.  Her body is bandaged; her broken wrist casted and stabilized.  The bed she’s in is much softer, and much larger, than the one she is used to—the bedding in the barracks is cramped and hard as a rock, a far cry from this.  The thought has her trying to push herself upright, trying to get a hold of her surroundings.

The movement makes pain flare through her head, and she can’t keep a small hiss from escaping between her teeth.

“Rayla,” says a familiar voice, calm and firm and slightly reproving.  It’s as effective as if Runaan had pushed her back into bed with his own hand.  Rayla goes still, slumping back against the pillows.  She’s still not quite sure where she is, but if Runaan is here, then it must be safe.

He is leaning against the wall by the door.  He has shed his leathers and his armor, something that makes her blink a couple of times, trying to make sure she’s seeing things correctly.  She and Runaan are…kind of close, she knows.  Close in the way that became sort of inevitable when he’d offered to teach her personally, when it was pointed out that her skills were accelerated far beyond those of her peers and that she needed a mentor to keep her progress from stagnating.  At the very least, he is marginally more invested in her advancement than that of the other trainees.

But still, for all intents and purposes, he is her commanding officer.  Not her friend, not her father.  As such, it’s highly unusual for him to appear in front of her out of full armor—and vice versa.  There are no rules against it, and most elves that Rayla knows wouldn’t understand her confusion.  But this is Runaan, which means that her bewilderment is justified.  Runaan is a stickler for tradition—his thing about armor isn’t about the _rules_ , it’s about his authority, and it’s about her respect. 

“Runaan?” she says blearily.  “Are you?  What—? Where are—?”  The words don’t want to form on her lips, getting caught in her throat until she forgets where she’d been trying to go with them.

“You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days,” Runaan says, and then suddenly he’s standing right next to her bedside.  Rayla isn’t sure if he really just moves that quickly, or if she’d fallen back asleep for a couple seconds.  He’s looming over her as he examines her with narrowed eyes, and Rayla can’t keep herself from shrinking under his gaze, trying to bury herself deeper in the blankets to escape his judgement.

She really has stepped in it this time, hasn’t she?

Runaan purses his lips.  “You will recover fully,” he says after a long moment.  “The healer has been coming in to check on you regularly.  You’re a bit out of it because of the potions he gave you, but _do_ try to remember that you’re to alert someone if you’re in pain so that he can come and administer more.”

Ah, well that explains why Rayla is having trouble holding a coherent thought, much less an entire sentence.

“Oh,” she says.  “Hey, is my healer that sun elf?  The one you think is cute?”

Runaan’s face flushes, nostrils flaring.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, with forced nonchalance.  “You’re talking nonsense.  Perhaps he gave you too much medication on accident.”

“Nooo,” Rayla can’t keep from protesting.  “I remember, because that one time you got that _tiny_ scratch on your bicep and he was like.  _‘Oh, Runaan, let me bandage that for you!’_ And you said yes because you ‘didn’t want it to get infected,’ but I know the _truth_ Runaan.  You just wanted him to feel your arm!”

Runaan’s face had gotten steadily darker the longer Rayla had spoken, and seeing his expression—warring embarrassment and irritation—is enough to startle a slightly hysterical giggle from Rayla’s chest.

Except laughing _hurts_ , and the sudden pain in her ribcage startles her into a coughing fit that has her doubling over in agony.

And then Runaan’s hand is on her back, guiding her further upright and tucking an extra pillow under her head.

“Deep breaths,” he says calmly.  “Deep breaths.”

 _I’m_ _trying_ , she wants to spit, but can’t find the air.  After a minute or two, Rayla finally sucks in a deep breath and slumps against the pillows in relief.

There’s a light sheen of sweat on her brow now, sticky and gross.  Rayla doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it and resigns herself to an evening of feeling kind of disgusting, except Runaan is there, and he’s wiping her brow down.

She blinks up at him, and is struck, suddenly, by how embarrassing this is.  Runaan is the greatest of all the Moonshadow elf assassins.  And she—she is talented, she knows.  She’s heard it enough times.  But she’s also heard the whispers of others.  That someone else should have taken on her training, that Runaan—their _best_ —shouldn’t have so debased himself by taking on a _student_ rather than missions.  And they’re right. 

She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but watching Runaan now, reduced to nursemaid all because of _her_ foolish mistake is almost too much for her.

Runaan turns away from her.  “I’m getting the healer,” he says, already starting to walk away.

“No!” she says sharply, the word so desperate that it makes her feel pathetic.  “Why?”

Runaan looks at her, confusion marring his features.  “Rayla,” he says, “you’re crying.  If you’re in pain, then—”

She’s crying?  Rayla raises a hand to her face and finds that, indeed, there are tears trickling out of the corners of her eyes, leaving her cheeks damp and her lashes heavy.

Damn.

She doesn’t want to be crying.  She’s a Moonshadow elf, and Moonshadow elves don’t _cry_.  But she doesn’t have any control over it, they’re slipping free against her volition.

Whatever she’s on, it must be _strong_.

“I’m not in pain,” she says honestly.

She watches Runaan hesitate, before finally returning to her bedside. 

“Then what’s wrong?” he says, in a voice that leaves Rayla no room to refuse to answer; it’s the voice he uses when issuing an order.  It’s a question, but only in the technical sense of the word.  That tone of his—Runaan won’t give up until she answers.

“I’m sorry,” Rayla tells him.

Runaan blinks once, twice.

“What are you sorry for?” he says finally, confusion still plain on his face.

Rayla wipes harshly at her eyes with the hand that isn’t bound in a cast.

“In the forest,” she says.  “I messed up.  I’m sorry.  You told me to stay close.”

She looks up at Runaan, worried, but he doesn’t look angry at the reminder of her mistake.  Instead, his eyes have gone slightly wide in realization.

“Rayla,” he says firmly.  “There’s nothing for you to apologize for because what happened there was my fault.”

“What are you talking about?” Now it’s _her_ turn to be confused.  What on earth is Runaan on about?

“I was moving too quickly for you, Rayla,” says Runaan.  His voice is matter of fact, to anyone else it might sound awfully cold for how kind his words are.  “The pace I was keeping was the one I’d keep with my team, not the one I should have been using during a training exercise with a trainee, much less one that’s _thirteen years old_.”

“I got distracted,” she insists.

“Perhaps,” he says.  “But I was moving so quickly that by the time I’d noticed you’d slipped from my side, you never would have been able to find me again.  That shouldn’t have happened.  Ideally, if you’d gotten distracted, I would have taken the opportunity to give you a tracking lesson—left you a trail so you could practice finding a lost teammate.  Or perhaps a lesson in defending against an ambush.”

“I messed up,” Rayla can’t help but insist.

“I won’t argue,” he says.  “But you are a student.  While you are in training, such mistakes can be forgiven.  They should even be expected.  But I am your teacher—such an error is not as justifiable.”  He stops, looking at Rayla’s face.  “What’s wrong?”

She grabs his sleeve tightly, and she feels Runaan start in surprise.  She’s pretty sure that if she weren’t drugged up, she’d never have the courage to grab at Runaan like that.  But right now she can’t think straight, and this feels so important that she’s willing to risk it.

“It’s not your fault,” she says urgently.  “Please don’t sound so sad.”

Runaan blinks down at her, and then he sits down on the edge of the bed.  With the hand that she isn’t holding, he smooths the hair back from her forehead.  “Tell you what,” he says, voice soft in a way that she only sees from him on very rare occasions.  “I’ll make you a deal.  I won’t blame myself if you do two things for me.”

Rayla narrows her eyes.  “But you’re only doing one thing for me!” she says.  “That’s not fair.”

Runaan makes a sharp noise, and it takes Rayla too long to realize that it’s a _laugh_.  Runaan just laughed—and not a mocking, angry laugh like she hears from him in battle, or the sardonic chuckle that assassins’ gallows humor raises from him.  A proper laugh, happy and light.

“That’s true,” he says.  “But it’s a pretty big one.”

He has a point.  “Okay,” she says.  “What are they?”

“One,” Runaan says, “you’re not to blame yourself either.  If you really want me to let this go, then I want you to do the same.”

Rayla narrows her eyes.  “And what’s number two?”

Runaan’s hands still for a moment.  “Don’t _ever_ worry me like that again.”

“Mmm,” says Rayla, considering it.  “I _guess_ I’m okay with that.”

Runaan smiles down at her.  “I’m glad.”

“Hey,” she says after a moment, remembering the question that had initially popped into her mind.  He glances down at her again.  “Where _are_ we?”

Runaan laughs again—and holy _shit_.  That’s twice in like, less than one minute. 

Runaan stops suddenly, looking down at her in surprise.  “Language!” he admonishes, but there’s a note of amusement in his eyes that keeps the reprimand from feeling entirely honest. 

Whoops.  Had she said that out loud?  Whatever medicine she’s on really _has_ loosened her tongue.

“But you didn’t expect to make your recovery in the barracks, did you?” Runaan continues, raising an eyebrow.  “I’m afraid that you’ll need a caretaker for the next week or so as you get back on your feet.  Healers orders.  But as you know, your parents’ post means that they cannot come home for some time yet, so as I am your mentor, it was decided that I was the next best thing.”

“Oh,” she says simply.  “That’s good.”  She yawns, wide and exhausted.  “I’m glad that it’s you.”

Her eyes are so heavy that they’re starting to fall shut against her will, but she thinks that she catches a glimpse of a shocked, flattered expression crossing Runaan’s face.

“I’m tired,” she mumbles, squeezing Runaan’s hand tightly.

Runaan squeezes her hand back.  “Then rest, little one,” he says, still sounding rather stiff and surprised.  “Rest well.”

 

**

 

Callum is in the palace kitchens.  This isn’t unusual.  What _is_ unusual is that he’s there to _make_ food, not sneak it out.   He’s keeping things simple today; he doesn’t want to set anything on fire or serve his mother something unrecognizable, though he’s bad enough at cooking that simplicity alone may not be enough to save him from that particular fate.

 _Just like me,_ his mother always insists, ruffling his hair. 

 _No_ , he always replies, playfully swatting her hand away and sticking his tongue out.  _I’m still a better cook than you_.  _At least I have that._

 _Ohhhhh,_ she would say, laughing, _just for that, I’m making dinner tonight._

But they both know he’s right.  He’s a bit of a disaster in the kitchen, but he’s still better at it than she is.  His mother, queen or not, is not good at everything, but still: there are very few things that she is actively _bad_ at. 

Cooking is one of them.

Luckily, Callum had asked Bertrand, the king’s personal chef, to help him with the trickier steps.  The man had agreed readily enough when Callum had explained his reasons: they’re his mother’s favorites, and she’s been spreading herself so thin lately, and for all that they’re mutually awful at cooking, this has always been how their family has shown love.  Gestures, gifts, effort.  Little acts of comfort that mean a lot more than anyone else would anticipate.

Most of the meal prep is done, at this point.  Callum had insisted on doing most of the work after that point; it’s not a _gesture_ if he makes someone else do all the labor, but the chef is sticking around nonetheless to make sure he doesn’t burn the place down.  Which is, Callum has to admit, an entirely valid concern.

Callum’s so fixated on his work that he doesn’t even hear the door to the kitchen open—doesn’t notice someone walking in until he feels the chef’s posture stiffening to his left.

“Your majesty,” the chef bows respectfully. 

Callum freezes. 

“Your majesty!” he blurts, standing up from his seat so quickly that he trips over his own tangled up feet, only just barely catching himself with the edge of the table.  He straightens up awkwardly, wiping his damp hands on the back of his pants, before immediately realizing that his trousers are dark and his hands are still stained with flour.  Whoops.  He searches for something to do with his hands before finally just letting them fall to his sides, unsure of how to recover without making things any more awkward.

In contrast to Callum’s desperate attempt at formality, King Harrow looks almost casual.  His crown is absent from his head, his locks spilling freely over his shoulders, and the fancier layers of his kingly raiment have been foregone for the sake of a more comfortable, if plainer, shirt.  Callum has seen King Harrow dressed like this before, but it’s usually when he needs his mother and has to knock on the door of the bedchamber she shares with the king to get to her.  Not just… _around_.

He had started forward a bit when Callum had stumbled, going tense and reaching out a hand as if to catch him, but at Callum’s acknowledgement he brings it hesitantly back to his side.

“Callum,” he says.  “You, uh, don’t need to—” he hesitates, glancing off to the side hesitantly.  “No matter.  Viren told me that he saw you heading down here earlier, and I was curious.”

King Harrow steps forward, movements tentative, like he’s not sure how Callum will respond to the closer proximity.

Callum glances between King Harrow and the table.  “Can I…?” he says, not sure how to phrase the question.

King Harrow’s eyebrows go up.  “Can you what, Callum?”  Realization dawns in his eyes.  “Oh! Callum, you…don’t need to ask permission to sit in my presence.  That goes for you too, Bertrand,” he says, turning to the chef.

“Okay,” says Callum, voice a little more doubtful than he means it to be.  All his lessons on royal etiquette had stressed that one could not _sit_ in the presence of a king unless granted permission.  But this technically counts as permission, right?  It’s just kind of…blanket permission.  For this time and every time after.  Satisfied with this logic, Callum sinks back into his seat, though he doesn’t turn back to the food.

“May I watch?” King Harrow asks, gesturing to the table.

Callum pauses.  On one hand, King Harrow is, y’know, the _king_ , and his step-father to boot.  And even if those two things didn’t demand that Callum treat the man with respect, there’s also the small matter of the fact that he really _does_ want the man to like him, and rebuffing the man’s attempts at being friendly are not conducive to that goal.  And his work _is_ passable, especially by his mother’s standards.

But King Harrow is used to eating some of the finest food in the world prepared for him personally by one of the best _chefs_ in the world.  Some small, unfamiliar part of Callum’s heart recoils at the thought of the king seeing the dish and deeming it unworthy. 

Callum finally nods, though the movement is slow and hesitant, his sense of manners winning out over the surprising and entirely unwelcome moment of insecurity.  He needs to do _something_ with the anxious energy that’s thrumming through him now, though, so he hesitantly starts to work again.  He pauses to give King Harrow a glance, and there’s been no significant change to the man’s expression, so he doesn’t stop.

King Harrow finally approaches the table, leaning forward to the examine Callum’s work.

“What are you making?” he asks.

Callum’s jaw drops open despite himself.  “You’ve never had them?”

King Harrow shakes he’s head.  “They’re from your home, right?  I can’t say I’ve ever had the privilege.  I’ve thought about asking your mother, but she’s always telling me about how much she hates cooking, and I don’t want to impose.”

“I think she’s okay with making these,” Callum offers hesitantly.  “They’re pretty simple.  They’re just dumplings.”

He takes a spoonful of the meat and vegetable mixture and starts folding the wettened skin around it, taking care to pleat the outer edges so they crown the small, wrapped mixture. 

“You’re quite good at this,” King Harrow notes, sounding legitimately fascinated.  He reaches out to poke out the one in Callum’s hand, and Callum, mostly operating on instinct, swats the king’s hand away, the way he would with his mother or Aunt Amaya or Gren.

“Not till it’s done,” Callum chides, and then immediately remembers that the person standing next to him is _not_ actually his mother, or Aunt Amaya, or Gren.  He’s the king.  

Callum’s eyes go wide, and he chokes on an apology, not sure where to begin.

“Callum!” the chef says, while Callum is still fishing for words, his voice surprised and mildly amused.  “You’re pretty bold today, kid!”  He reaches over to gently cuff Callum on the back of the head. 

The movement isn’t violent, or angry.  It’s playful—Aunt Amaya does it to Gren when he tries to censor her more…colorful diatribes, even though she’s never legitimately upset.  And his mom does it to _him_ when he forgets his manners (like now).  Even more, Callum spends so much time in the kitchen that he knows the chef pretty well—well enough to know that the man is not genuinely angry, and that even if he were, he is not the sort of person who would raise his hand to Callum, or to any other child for that matter. 

Callum is unbothered by it, so it does nothing to disturb the crisis Callum is currently enduring over the fact that he just _hit the king_.  Gently, sure.  But _still_.

It isn’t even until he hears King Harrow’s noise of indignation that he glances over at the chef, panicked reverie interrupted.

The king has the chef’s arm caught by the wrist, gripping it so tight that his knuckles are going pale. 

“Your majesty—” Callum starts slowly, but it’s not necessary.  He can see the moment King Harrow realizes his error—the stony anger melting away to a flush that Callum might even be tempted to call _embarrassed_.

“Ah,” King Harrow says as he drops the chef’s hand.  His voice is abashed.  He’s suddenly so far from the image of perfect king most people know, firm and fair and unshakable, that Callum is almost sent reeling.  “My apologies, Bertrand.  I don’t know what came over me.”

The chef rubs at wrist, a movement that King Harrow follows with guilty eyes, but the chef himself is chuckling a bit.

“You might not, but I do, your majesty,” he says with a conspiratorial smile.  “Don’t you worry.  I’ve raised a couple kids of my own, and I’ve got some grandkids not much younger than this one here.” He gestures to Callum.  “It’s happened to me more times than I care to admit.  Those instincts really do get you.”

King Harrow smiles back, relief spreading across his face.  “Of course,” he says kindly.  “Though I didn’t know you had grandchildren, Bertrand.  You should bring them to the palace sometime.  I’d love to meet them, if I’m free, and I’m sure they’d enjoy the grounds.”

The chef blinks a couple times.  “That’s very kind of you, your majesty,” he says.  “I’m sure they’d love it.”

“Of course,” says King Harrow.  “Did you have any more work to be done here, Bertrand?”

“Just keeping an eye on this one,” says the chef, gesturing to Callum.  “Make sure he doesn’t burn the place down.”

“It’s late,” King Harrow says kindly, “I’d be glad to take it from here.”

Callum hesitates in the middle of folding up his next dumpling, sitting up straight to glance between the two men.

“Well,” says the chef, glancing at the assortment of ingredients on the table.  “I’ve done most of the tricky stuff for you, Callum.  All that’s left now is to assemble and cook, which his majesty can help you with.  I can’t imagine you’ll have too much trouble.  So if that is what is wished of me…”

“You’re dismissed, Bertrand,” says King Harrow, giving the chef a respectful nod.  The man bows again, and then leaves.

“Your majesty,” says Callum, “you don’t have to inconvenience yourself for me.”

“It’s no inconvenience,” says King Harrow, taking a seat next to Callum at the table.  “So, teach me how to help?”

Callum looks up at the man.  There’s no hint of falsehood in the king’s eyes—no indication that he doesn’t really want to be here but is staying out of some misguided sense of obligation.

So Callum swallows his anxieties, and he teaches the king how to make dumplings. 

King Harrow’s larger fingers don’t quite manage to fold the skins up quite as neatly as Callum’s can, but after a couple disastrous ones that Callum decides to keep anyways because _waste not, want not,_ the king is actually managing some that look fairly respectable.

“So,” King Harrow asks, after an indeterminate amount of time working side by side, “how do you cook these?”

“You steam them,” says a familiar, male voice from the doorway, cheery and kind.  And then, sterner: “Also, King Harrow, I’ve been looking for you for _ages_.”

“Aunt Amaya! Gren!” Callum says brightly.  “Hi!  Oh, sorry, Aunt Amaya.  Do you need to—”  Callum makes a sort of half-gesture in the king’s direction.

Standing in the doorway, Amaya smiles, Gren at her side, as always.

“Well, I did need to consult with him about something,” Amaya signs, “but are these _dumplings_ I see?  My original reason for coming here suddenly just got a lot less important.”

“Are you sure?” King Harrow says.  “If it’s urgent…”

Callum glances at his aunt, but her posture is loose.  There’s nothing seriously wrong, then.  Amaya rarely looks entirely relaxed, even when everything is fine, so if she’s comfortable now then there’s nothing much to be worried about.

“It isn’t,” she signs, Gren still translating along.  “We can talk about it tomorrow in the morning.  For now, do you mind if the two of us join you?”

Callum looks to King Harrow for permission, and the man nods. 

“Of course,” he says.  “Please, join us.”

Amaya strides over, Gren following along behind her.  Their steps are strangely synchronized, and Callum remembers that they’ve probably been joined at the hip for longer than he’s even been _alive_.  It’s strange to think about—Callum doesn’t really have any friends except for Ezran, who is four, and Viren’s kids, who Callum thinks may only be his friends out of some strange of pity for the poor step-prince with no social skills.  Will he ever have what Aunt Amaya has?  A friendship so strong and old and devoted that it practically has a beating heart of its own? 

Aunt Amaya leans over and examines the mixture of meat they’re using, before crinkling her nose and signing something that Callum doesn’t understand.  She goes over to one of the cupboards, rummaging around until she finds a couple of containers of spices, adding bit of each to the mixture.  She stirs it in and then nods in satisfaction.

“Much better,” she signs.

“Thanks Aunt Amaya!” says Callum.

“Did his majesty make those ones?” signs Amaya, pointing to the group of slightly more misshapen dumplings resting on their plate, ready to be cooked.

Callum can’t keep himself from cracking a smile—not at his aunt’s words but at the way Gren chokes when he translates them.

“Ah,” says King Harrow.  “Yes, that was me.  Guilty as charged.  I don’t think they’re _that_ ugly.”

Callum doesn’t think so either, but then again, now that Gren and Amaya have gotten started, his look pretty ugly too.

Amaya smirks, and signs something else in Gren’s direction.

 Gren opens his mouth and then closes it with a huff, breaking his role as translator for the first “Please don’t make me say that in front of the kid!” he says indignantly, both verbally and in sign.  “I don’t want him to figure out the signs!”

“Which signs?” says Callum.  “The ones you don’t translate?”  He thinks for a moment and then replicates one that Gren has a habit of trying to skip.  “Like that one?”

Gren goes pale, and even Amaya, usually unshakeable, stills, staring at him with wide eyes.

Callum smiles up at them.

Finally, Gren clears his throat and turns to stare at Amaya accusatorily.  “This is your fault,” he signs, shoulders slumping helplessly.  “ _I’ve_ tried my best.”  Amaya chokes on a laugh.  She heaves in a breath, finally recovering for long enough to give Callum an approving nod.

Gren huffs indignantly.  “I’m telling your sister,” he signs.

“You wouldn’t _dare_ ,” Amaya signs back, but the expression on Gren’s face suggests that he really, really would.

Amaya punches him in the shoulder.

Gren makes an overdramatic noise of pain, rubbing at his arm even as he tries and fails to hold back a laugh of his own.  “I’m telling her about that too,” he signs when he’s done.

“I’m sorry,” King Harrow interrupts, “ _what_ exactly did Callum just say?”

Amaya elbows Gren, who promptly looks at King Harrow and starts stuttering.  The king has an eyebrow arched, gaze critical and unwavering.  It’s the sort of expression that Harrow uses on people about to be put on trial.

Gren falters. “Uhhhh,” he says, voice suddenly high.

King Harrow’s serious expression shatters just as suddenly as it had formed, giving way to laughter.  “I’m _joking_ , Gren,” he says, the friendly smile returning to his face.

“Oh,” says Gren, bringing a hand to his chest as he slumps in relief.  “Oh, my goodness.  That was so scary.”

“Hey now, Harrow.”  Callum straightens as his mother’s voice rings through the room. “Try not to scare our dear Gren to death, please.”

“Darling,” King Harrow says fondly, at the same time as Callum says, indignantly:

“Mom! What are you doing here?”

She arches a dark, elegant brow at him.  She, like Harrow, is dressed comfortably, having changed out of her armor for the evening.  Ezran is asleep in her arms, his chubby four-year-old cheek resting against the curve of her neck.

“Well,” she says smartly, “I wouldn’t be down here if my _entire_ family hadn’t decided to disappear and hang out _without_ inviting me.”

“How did you even find _out_?” says Callum, aghast.

“Weeeell,” his mother drawls, “as far as I can tell, Viren saw you coming down here and told my husband.  My husband came down here and a couple of the manservants saw _him_ , and they told Amaya and Gren, who were then seen by Claudia and Soren, who mentioned it to one of my lieutenants, who mentioned it to me.”

“This is why I hate the castle,” Amaya signs.  “Gossip moves too _fast._ Gren and I _just_ got here.”

His mother laughs.  “Be fair, Amaya,” she says, “but when you have the entire royal family slowly migrating to one room, people are going to notice.  But I’m getting off topic here—Callum I can’t believe that you didn’t invite me! You know I love dumplings!”

Callum crosses his arms.  “They were _supposed_ to be a surprise!” he says with a huff.

His mom tilts her head to the side, and smiles.  “Really?” she says.  She shifts Ezran’s weight on her hip so she can hold him with just one hand and extends a hand to Callum.  “Okay, that’s actually pretty cute.  Come here and let me give you a hug.”

Callum is plastering himself to his mother’s side in a second, but instead of hugging him back, she takes the opportunity to sweep him off the ground with her free arm.

“Mom!” he cries out, surprised.  “You’re already holding Ezran! I’m too heavy!”

“Too _heavy_?  Never, darling,” she laughs, pressing an affectionate kiss to Callum’s cheek.  “Do I look like I’m having trouble?”

“Your mother _is_ a soldier,” signs Amaya.  “You guys are nothing.”

“Listen to your aunt,” his mother says, “she’s _very_ wise.”  She squeezes him tight.  “Sorry for ruining your surprise, kiddo.”

“Sarai,” says King Harrow, and Callum looks over to realize that King Harrow has stood up from his seat and is standing in front of her with so much adoration in his eyes that it kind of blows Callum away.  King Harrow is still the most intimidating person Callum has ever met, but Callum will never stop being happy that King Harrow is with his mom.  They’ve been together for years now, though Callum himself hadn’t met the king until quite late into the courtship, but King Harrow still says her name like it knocks the very breath out of him—like it’s a promise, a vow to a greater power, something grander and more beautiful than a mortal man could hope to be.  And when he watches her, the expression on his face is always just as captivated as the day Callum had first seen them together.

King Harrow is intimidating, but Callum would be lying if he said that the man wasn’t deeply in love with his mother.

Harrow walks over to his wife as if pulled by a string.  He stops in front of her and, taking care to avoid jostling Ezran or Callum, leans forward to plant a chaste kiss on her lips.

“The surprise is ruined,” he says playfully, “but perhaps you might still care to join us?”

“Ah,” says Callum’s mother, brushing past her husband to deposit Callum back into his chair and Ezran into Gren’s lap, which makes Gren light up immediately.  “You know, I do think I will!”

“Ugh,” Callum groans overdramatically, and his mom gasps in mock offense.

“Enough from you, little guy,” she leans over, ruffling his hair so ferociously that it stands on end.  “It’s not like _you’re_ any better than I am.”

“Yes I am!” says Callum.

“He is,” Amaya agrees.

“Betrayed, by both of you!” says his mother, speaking in sign as well as aloud now that her hands are free.  “Harrow?”

“Your cooking is lovely darling,” says Harrow, unconvincingly.  And, upon hearing the weakness of his own voice, he winces.  “I mean,” he hedges, “there _is_ always room for improvement.”

Mom groans.  “Can I trust none of you?  Gren?”

Gren freezes in the middle of poking one of Ezran’s chubby cheeks.  He doesn’t say anything, but the panicked grimace on his face is answer enough.

“Et tu, Gren?” Mom says.  “Ouch.  Well, _I_ bet that mine will be the best.”

It goes without saying that she doesn’t _quite_ manage it, but since the palace is still left standing at the end of things, they decide that it’s close enough. 

It’s the most fun that Callum has had in a _long_ time.  It’s nice, he thinks.  To forget that Harrow is a king, his brother a prince, and his mother is now a queen, while he’s just his mother’s…bastard child from a previous relationship.

It’s a disturbing thought, one that Callum thinks more than he probably should. But Callum knows his history.  If Harrow were any less kind, or if he were anything like any of his predecessors, Callum would have been sent far away (if he was lucky) or outright killed (if he was…less lucky) to avoid staining the royal family’s perfect image and to dispose of anyone who could threaten to upset the line of succession.

But right now, in the kitchen, formal wear and formal speak abandoned, everyone sweating from the heat of the kitchens, Callum can let such thoughts slip from his mind and pretend that, for all intents and purposes, they really are just a normal family, and that he is just as much a part of it as any of them.

 

**

 

“I _told_ you to stay behind me,” Rayla snaps.

“Oh, _‘thanks Callum, for pushing me out of the way of that man’s club!’_ ” Callum says dramatically from his position on the ground.  “Are you—are you actually mad at me right now?”

Rayla’s eyes narrowed and she tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, scowling down at him.  “Why would I thank you?” she says.  “I was going to dodge that before you got in my way!”

Callum blinks up at her.  “Well,” he says, “I, uh.  Didn’t know that.”

“What do you mean?” she says furiously.  “The man was a drunkard.  Hardly a trained killer.  I had him!”

“Well most humans can’t move that fast!” says Callum, raising his own voice to match hers.  “I’m sorry, okay?  I was just trying to help, jeez!”

Rayla heaves an angry breath.  “Next time _don’t_ , alright?  Just stay out of my way.”

“Why are you so mad about this?” Callum glares balefully at her, and Rayla recoils.  “And I will _not_ stay out of your way if I think you’re in danger.  We’re a team, we should watch out for each other.”

“I’m not mad!” Rayla yells, and then pauses, trying to center herself.  “I don’t need you to watch out for me, so stop _trying_ , alright?”

“You are being,” says Callum, voice frustrated, “absolutely, completely, and totally unreasonable!”

“Oh sweet—” Rayla doesn’t even have time to decide which deity’s name she should take in vain, because she’s interrupted by Ezran, who sounds about as cross as she’s ever heard him.

“Guys!” he says, stomping his foot.  “ _Stop_ fighting.  You’re upsetting Zym.”

Rayla glances down and feels the fight start to drain out of her when she sees Azymondias hiding behind Ezran’s legs.  Bait is resting on his back, but that doesn’t seem to be enough to quell Zym’s distress.  His ears are back, his tail tucked, and his eyes wide and sad as he glances between the arguing duo in front of him.

And though Ezran hadn’t mentioned a thing about himself, Rayla can tell immediately from the pout of his lips and the tremble of his hands that he is just as alarmed and discomfited by the argument as their young dragon prince.  Seeing that makes it hard to _not_ feel guilty.  For all that Callum gets on her nerves sometimes, she has no real desire to do anything that will upset Zym or Ezran.  Unlike Callum, they actually _listen_ to her when she asks them to do something important.

That said, she doesn’t even have to look at Callum to sense his reaction, which is much the same as hers.

“Sorry, little one,” she says, and she means it.

To her side Callum makes a gentle noise of agreement.  “Yeah, Zym,” he says.  “Did we scare you?” 

Now that they aren’t yelling anymore, Zym’s posture is already starting to brighten considerably, his tail uncurling, his ears perking up, and the ruff of fur around his face already starting to puff up happily.  Dragons might be just as intelligent, if not more so, than most humanoids, but Zym is still a baby, and like all babies, he is quick to upset and just as quick to _forget_ his distress.

“Thanks,” says Ezran, slumping in relief.  “Took you guys long enough.”

“Yeah,” says Rayla.  She extends a hand to Callum, but he’s already clambering back to his feet on his own.

“Well,” he says, looking around nervously, “we better get out of dodge now, before anyone comes looking for this guy.”

He gives the unconscious drunkard a gentle nudge with the toe of his boot.  The man is out cold—no thanks to him, of course.  But still, Rayla can’t help but acknowledge, Callum has a point.  If _this_ man managed to recognize her as an elf, then potentially any of the humans here could.  It’s dangerous for all of them to remain here too long.

The trek out of the village is long, made all the more difficult by deep snowbanks chilly air, but they finally set up camp a couple miles out of the main city, in a spot well off the beaten-road that Rayla selects specifically because it will be out of sight.  At some point during the trip Zym had gotten tired and decided to drape himself across the back of Callum’s neck like a living scarf, his head nestled in the curve of Callum’s collarbone, his tail wrapped gently round the front of Callum’s throat.

Normally she’d find the sight, however reluctantly, rather cute.  But right now, all Rayla can feel is irritated.  She just wants to be alone—where she can think in peace.

So she lights the fire, helps set up camp, and snags her cloak. 

“I’m going to go scout,” she says shortly.  “I’ll be back soon.”

Callum makes a brief noise of agreement that makes Rayla want to roll her eyes.  But Ezran is watching her with a frown, so she resists the urge.  She doesn’t want to upset Ezran any further, which is why she’s leaving instead of demanding that she and Callum hash this out immediately.

Especially since, well…especially since, right now, Rayla isn’t even sure if it’s _Callum_ she’s angry with. 

 

The fire is nice and warm and lights up their campsite in all sorts of lovely shades of orange.  Rayla wouldn’t let them make it too big so they can avoid being seen, but Ezran doesn’t really mind.  He’s perfectly comfortable as long as he sticks close by the fire.

Moonshadow elves, on the other hand, must be a lot tougher than humans are.  Rayla had finished helping them light the fire and then immediately stalked off into the shadows.

Ezran can’t keep from glancing into the woods, knowing that she has to be nearby.  He wonders if she’s simply lingering in the trees, watching them but out of their line of sight.  Rayla always tells them she never strays out of ear or eyeshot, so _stop whining, Callum_ , _it’s not my fault that you humans can’t see or hear anything._

Callum is curled up by the fire, one arm tight around his knee where the thug had clubbed it earlier, his lips twisted bitterly tight.  He’s staring resolutely into the flames.  The expression on his face is cracked stone, emotionless but not effortlessly so, the occasional twitch revealing that he’s much more upset than you otherwise might expect.

In other words, he’s sulking.  Ezran is deeply familiar with this side of his brother.  This is the mood Callum gets in when Soren pushes the _step-prince_ joke a bit too far. 

The situation is a bit ironic, Ezran thinks.  He’s not so naïve as to deny that Callum and Rayla are mad at each other.  They may have ended their argument abruptly to avoid upsetting Zym, but you couldn’t cut the tension between them with a sunforged blade.  But still, they’re both so hurt because they _care_ about the other, even though neither of them seems to realize it.

It also means that the only way for either of them to calm down is to make them _talk_ to one another.

Ezran tries Callum first.

“Callum,” he says, as sweetly as he can manage. 

Callum’s back straightens instantly, and he narrows his eyes as he stares straight at Ezran.  “What does that voice mean?” he says.

“What do you mean?” Ezran says, putting his hands behind his back and averting his gaze innocently. 

“That _voice_ ,” Callum says, “is the one you use before you say or do something you know I’m going to dislike.”

“I am _not!”_ says Ezran, aghast at the implication.  Callum arches an eyebrow skeptically and for a moment, Ezran goes still.

Their mother has been dead for a long time, long enough that Ezran doesn’t so much remember her as he just has…images that rise to the forefront of his mind sometimes, things that he must have seen when he was cradled in her arms, or being tucked into bed, or when he was tugging on her skirts to get her attention.  Things that are completely forgotten to him until something reminds him.  Or, perhaps ‘ _something_ ’ isn’t quite right.  It’s not something—it’s _someone_.

Usually Callum.  Aunt Amaya brings memories rushing back as well, but she is so often away at the warfront that Ezran doesn’t have quite as much time to ruminate on their similarities.

But Callum—Callum’s facial structure may be slightly different, may have hints of his birth father’s shape, but ultimately the cut of his cheekbones, of his brow, the _expressions_ he makes—they’re all _eerily_ familiar.

Sometimes, Ezran looks at his brother and is left feeling like he’s seen a ghost instead.  Or maybe it’s more like an echo, a reflection.  The distorted voice and image of someone that Ezran can’t remember, even though he knows that he _should_.

Ezran feels jealous sometimes.  His cheeks have his mother’s roundness, his nose a vague similarity to hers.  But everything else about him, he has been told, is the spitting image of his father at his age.  Which isn’t a bad thing, of course.  Ezran _loves_ his father, and as much as it’s going to suck whenever this adventure does end, Ezran thinks he might be looking forward to it just so he can get to see father again. 

But still—it’s hard to know that Callum gets the memories and the resemblance, while Ezran is left with the impossible task of trying to hold onto an image that he’s already forgotten.

There are paintings of their mother, yes.  Statues.  But they aren’t right.  Unlike Aunt Amaya and Callum, whose faces are different while still sometimes managing a perfect resemblance, the art is just…a collection of items that look precisely like her without managing to capture a thing about her.  Ezran knows that he’s more sensitive to the emotions of others than might be classified as…normal, but sometimes, when he looks at Callum and Aunt Amaya, it’s like he doesn’t just see traces of his mother, he _feels_ them too.  But all the art is cold and empty—the statues especially.  It’s like staring into a void, seeing an unexpected absence where he had been expecting—where he’d been _hoping_ to feel something.  It’s reaching out and finding empty space when he’d been trying to find _her_.

It’s harder still to deal with the fact that Callum can’t even seem to stand talking about her, much less being told that he reminds Ezran of her.  Ezran had said it once, right after the funeral.  He’d meant it as a comfort, but Callum had stormed off in tears and then hadn’t spoken to Ezran for nearly two days.

He’d felt bad about it afterwards.  Of course he had—it’s _Callum_.  Ezran knows this because this was the event that had marked the invention of the jerkface dance, an apology and, Ezran thinks, Callum’s desperate attempt to coax a laugh out of a mourning sibling.

The conflict had ended there, and Callum had never actually asked Ezran not to bring their mother up around him, but Ezran remembers the way Callum had reacted—as if he’d been struck _hard_ —more clearly than he remembers his own mother’s face. 

So when Callum nudges him with his shoulder and says promptingly: “ _Weeell?”_ Ezran just clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably.

“I think you should talk to Rayla,” he finally manages.

Callum blinks in surprise.  “ _She’s_ the one that’s mad at me,” he finally manages.

Ezran huffs, kicking at the ground in frustration.  “You guys are mad at each _other_ ,” he says.  “Plus, I thought you guys agreed that we should all try to get along!”

Callum shifts uncomfortably and Ezran knows that he has his brother beat.  He’s conceding easily enough that he was probably already feeling guilty.  He just needs a little push.

“I mean—” Callum glances around the camp and then heaves a sigh, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively.  “She’s not even _here_ right now.  She probably doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Ezran blinks.  “But if she was here…you would apologize?”

Callum looks back to the fire, pursing his lips.  “Yeah,” he admits, after a long silence.

“That’s great!” says Ezran.  He peers into the gloom, past the edge of their campsite into the copse of trees that loom high above, out of the reach of their fire’s light.  Rayla doesn’t miraculously emerge from the shadows, summoned by Callum’s confession, so Ezran taps his chin thoughtfully.

Zym is curled up by the fire, wings tucked close and eyes closed contentedly.  He seems to really enjoy the warmth.  Ezran isn’t sure if that’s normal for dragons.  Zym could also have an aversion to the cold after his dip in the lake—even if he _had_ just been an egg at the time, though Ezran hopes that’s not the case, since that would probably make Rayla feel bad.

Ezran bypasses Zym, instead plucking Bait up as he makes his way to the edge of the campsite.  Bait makes a disgruntled noise at being handled so suddenly, but otherwise doesn’t protest, settling down comfortably in Ezran’s hands.

Ezran hazards a glance over his shoulder.  Callum isn’t watching him, entranced by the flicker of the fire, so Ezran slips carefully into the shadows, and blinks rapidly.  The trees here are thick, and the second that he slips out of the cleared-out area they’re camping in, the light vanishes almost completely, only the barest hints of light from their camp visible.

“Okay buddy!” Ezran whispers, and Bait makes an expression that, in the dim light, Ezran might be tempted to call exasperated.  But with a croak, he obediently starts to glow, bright enough to illuminate the surrounding area without hurting Ezran’s eyes.

Ezran takes off at a brisk trot, snow crunching under his boots.  He holds Bait up, trying to look up into the trees, where he knows that Rayla prefers to hang out.

“Rayla!” he calls softly.  “Rayla, are you here?”

There’s no answer, and Ezran briefly feels a moment of unease as he ventures further into the woods.  Rayla wouldn’t have _left_ them, he knows, but what if something had happened to her?  She insists that the senses of a Moonshadow elf are superior to those of a human, so they might not have even known if something had attacked her. 

“Rayla?” he tries again, but there’s no answer.  Ezran’s heart sinks low in his chest.  Maybe he needs to go back to camp and try the other direction?  He could have sworn that she headed out here, but maybe he’s misremembering. 

He shudders.  He hadn’t realized precisely how well the fire had been keeping him warm until he’d moved away from it, and now even the slightest wind pierces straight through his jacket like an icy blade. 

His shoulders slump. He’ll have to head back to camp and then try again in the other direction.  Except when Ezran turns around, all telltale signs of light from their camp have gone, now far out of his line of sight.

Uh oh.

Ezran swallows heavily, instinctively holding Bait closer to his chest.  It’s okay, right?  All he has to do is just.  Walk directly backwards.  Except…he hadn’t followed a straight path the entire time, had he?  The terrain had been too rough for him to walk just straight ahead.

“Do you know where to go?” he asks Bait, hopeful.

Bait makes a confused-sounding croak, and Ezran sighs.

“Well, there goes that idea.”

He’s shivering properly now, as if the discovery that he may actually, _whoops_ , be a little lost, was what it took to properly get the chill to set in.

“Rayla!” he tries again, taking a couple steps backward.

The snow that he’s standing on feels unusually soft and deep, giving way under his feet with ease until he’s sinking down to his ankles.  It’s strange, but Ezran doesn’t realize why until it’s too late. 

And by then, the ground is already giving out from under him—except it’s not actually ground, is it?  He’d thought that he was just standing on another part of the path, but the buildup of snow had made the road look much wider than it actually was.

So when Ezran had stepped close to the edge, the snow had held his weight for a moment—and then it had collapsed.

Ezran closes his eyes, squeezing Bait tightly.  Falling is a disorienting feeling.  It’s like your brain is capable of processing how quickly the rest of your body is plummeting, so it needs an extra moment to catch up. 

But before Ezran can make impact, something unyielding catches the back of his shirt.  It knocks the breath out of him, puts an aching pressure on his ribs, but Ezran recognizes that grip.  He looks up, already smiling.

“Rayla!” he says, delighted, and then hesitance takes over.  “Are you okay?”

Rayla’s eyes are narrowed.  “I’m _fine_ ,” she says angrily from where she’s leaning over the ledge, braced to prevent Ezran’s weight from making her slide.  She hefts Ezran back up to solid ground, setting him down on the path in front of her.  Despite her glower, though, she’s nothing short of gentle as she handles him.  “Though I am curious about what the _hell_ you were thinking.”

“I was looking for you!” Ezran says by way of explanation.

“I could hear,” says Rayla.

Ezran frowns up at her.  “And you didn’t come?”

Rayla falters, hesitance flickering across her expression.  “You weren’t in danger,” she says after a moment.  “I wanted to be alone.”

“But I _was_ in danger!” Ezran says, shifting Bait so that he can point at the part of the path where the bank of snow had given way, colliding with craggy rock nearly twenty feet below.

It’s only Bait’s dim glow that allows Ezran to make out the purple flush suddenly building up on Rayla’s cheeks.  She deliberately averts her gaze. 

“Well, I see that now,” she says defensively.  “I just didn’t realize—”

She falls silent, and Ezran gives her a gentle nudge.  “What didn’t you realize?”

“I didn’t realize you were going to walk right off the edge of a cliff,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.

“How was _I_ supposed to know the road didn’t extend out that far?  It was hard to see under all that snow.”

Rayla stared at him long and hard, as if she expects him to burst out laughing and say: “nah, of course I knew there was a cliff there! It was all part of my strategy to lure you out!”

She seems to pale slightly when no such response comes.

Rayla curses lowly.  “Humans,” she says, “how are any of you still alive?”

“Good luck?” Ezran offers.

That gets Rayla to make a strange noise, something that’s halfway between a scoff and an actual laugh.  “Yeah,” she says, after a moment’s thought.  “That sounds about right.”  She smiles down at him, and then her eyes narrow as she sees the shivers wracking her form.

“Come on,” she says, the scowl already starting to make a reappearance.  She makes a gesture of Ezran to follow her and then stops in place, appearing to change her mind, before bending down and grabbing Ezran’s hand in her own.

At Ezran’s pleased noise, she rolls her eyes.  “No more falling off cliffs,” she says, and then adds, almost as an afterthought, “ _please_.”

“Okay,” says Ezran. “Slow down please?”

Rayla obligingly slows her pace when she sees that Ezran is stumbling trying to keep up with her. 

“You’re okay, right?” she asks nervously.

“Yeah,” says Ezran.  “You just walk fast.”

“Oh.”

After a stretch of silence, Rayla tilts her head curiously.  “Actually, why _were_ you looking for me?”

Ezran hesitates.  He doesn’t think Rayla will like it if he says _I want you and Callum to apologize to each other and stop fighting_ so instead he says: “Uh…I think I noticed Callum limping a little bit on the way to camp!  I thought you might know how to help?”

Rayla’s sucks in a breath of air through her teeth.  She gives no other outward reaction, but Ezran smiles victoriously nonetheless at the way she picks up the pace slightly again.  He catches bits and pieces of her muttering under her breath.  _Absolute…idiot.  Didn’t tell me he was injured._

It isn’t long until they’re close to camp again.  Ezran still can’t see the light from it, but he can hear Callum’s voice, tight with stress and concern.

“Ezran!” he hears Callum calling.  “Ez!  _Ez_!  Where did you go?  I _swear_ if you don’t get back here right now I am going to be _so_ mad!”

“I’m here!” Ez drops Rayla’s hand so he can rush ahead.  She makes a brief noise of surprise but doesn’t stop him.

Callum’s eyes widen in shock when Ezran breaks through the underbrush and back into their campsite, and then the tension drains out of him, replaced by sheer relief. 

“Ez!” he says, the remnants of fear making his voice sound almost angry.  “Why the hell would you run off like that in the middle of the night?  What were you thinking?”

“I went to go find Rayla for you!” Ezran offers Callum with a toothy smile.

“What?” Callum says loudly.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t find her, and it was really cold, and I almost fell off a cliff—” Callum’s eyes go wide again and he opens his mouth, maybe to yell, “but Rayla came and caught me so it’s all okay!”

“It is _not_ all okay,” says Callum, dragging Ezran closer to the fire and forcing him to sit down.  He cradles Ezran’s cheeks in his hand, tilting his head this way and that before running his hands down Ez’s arms, searching for injury. 

Zym perks up from where he’s lying curled up by the fire, trotting over to Ezran’s side and tilting his head inquisitively.  He pokes Ezran’s calf with his snout.

“It’s okay, Zym!” says Ezran, “I’m totally fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” says Callum firmly.

“He _is_ fine,” Rayla affirms from the edge of the campsite.

Standing so far away, at the very edge of the firelight’s dim reach, strange shadows dance across her face, making her expression inscrutable, which is probably what she’s going for.  She’s leaning against a tree, arms crossed in front of her chest.

Callum stands up straight, glancing between her and Ezran.  “You’re sure?” he asks, a little desperately, and Ezran feels a pang of guilt.  He hadn’t thought he’d been gone for that long, but Callum had clearly been desperate with worry

“Yes,” says Rayla, before amending.  “Well, he might be a touch cold.  But the best solution for that is to put him by the fire, which…you’ve already done.”

Callum slumps.  “Okay,” he says.  “Thanks, Rayla.  I really appreciate it.”

“It’s fine,” she says shortly.  An awkward silence falls.

Finally, Callum says.  “Hey, Rayla, I’m uh…really sorry about earlier today.  I wasn’t trying to get in your way, but I did, and I’m—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Rayla interrupts, stepping out of the shadows at last.  Properly illuminated, it becomes obvious that despite her well-controlled body language, she’s… _anxious_.  Her lips are pursed, her eyes darting back and forth like she doesn’t want to meet Callum’s gaze.

“No,” says Callum, taking a deep breath, “I really do.  I’m just—I don’t know.  You were right, earlier today.  But I got defensive.  I guess because I felt...kind of useless.”

Rayla blinks in surprise.  “What are you talking about?”

Callum shifts uncomfortably.  “I’m not a good fighter like you,” he says.  “And I _was_ our mage, and that made me useful.  But ever since I lost the primal orb, I guess I feel like I don’t have anything to contribute.”

“Hey!” Ezran interjects.  He gathers Zym up in the arm that’s not cradling Bait, and the young dragon fixes his loving gaze on Callum, tail swishing back and forth like an energetic cat’s.  “That saved Zym’s life, and he appreciates it!”

Zym makes a chirruping noise: agreement.  Callum flushes, and then goes even further red when Rayla says:

“Ez is right, Callum.  If you hadn’t broken the primal orb then this entire mission would have lost its purpose.  _We_ would have lost, and this war would never end, not until one or both sides was completely eradicated.”

“I guess,” says Callum.  “And I mean, I _know_ I did the right thing, and I obviously care about Zym.  But I just wish that I could do… _more_.  Look at everything you’ve managed, even with your hand like…”

“Even with my hand?” Rayla says questioningly, bringing said limb closer to her chest automatically.

“I can tell it’s still hurting you,” Callum says.

“It’s healing,” Rayla insists.

“It is,” Callum agrees.  “But it was looking pretty bad there for a while, Rayla, and recovering from injury that bad takes time.  I can _see_ that you’re still favoring it, which is _fine_ but I just…I wish I could do more to help.  You shouldn’t have to do so much to protect us while you’re still healing.”

Rayla takes in a deep breath, pausing thoughtfully as if she’s searching for the words.  “I wasn’t trying to make you feel useless.  I was just really angry because—”

“Because I got in your way,” Callum finishes sadly.

“ _Because I don’t want either of you to get hurt_ ,” Rayla says sharply.

Callum hesitates.  “What?”

Rayla’s breathing gets shakier and she crosses her arms in front of her defensively.  “You heard me,” she says.  “Listen.  I’ve already told you…I have a habit of messing everything up.  It’s something that runs in the family, I guess.  It happened all the time while I was in training and now…this was one of my first formal missions and I got my squadron discovered.  I put them all in danger and now I think that they might be—” her voice chokes and coughs to try and cover it.

“Rayla,” says Callum, voice soft.  Sympathetic.

“Let me finish,” says Rayla, voice tight with the effort of keeping from shedding tears.  “I can’t seem to stop failing people.  I failed my team, I failed…I failed _Runaan_ , and now they’re probably all _dead_ because of me.  And even if they’re alive, they must be—they must be _so_ disappointed in me.  But I want to get this right.  If I can get all of us to Xadia alive then I’ll be able to say that at least I didn’t fail at one thing.  But you guys—you _humans_ —you’re so delicate.  I swear, it makes me paranoid.  How am I going to keep you guys alive when you keep walking off cliffs at every given opportunity?  I don’t want to let you guys down too.”

Zym squirms in Ezran’s arms, making a strange, high trilling noise and staring at Rayla with a beseeching gaze. 

“Yeah,” Ezran agrees.  “You could never let us down!”

Callum shifts.  “They are right, you know,” he says.  “I know that I haven’t always been…the most trusting of you, but we’re a team.  If we fail, it’s on all of us.  Not just you.  And if something happens to one of us—that’s not your fault either.  Unless you, like, literally kill us.  Not that I think you’d do that!  But like, that is probably the one scenario where it would actually be your—”

“I get it,” Rayla says, but Ezran doesn’t miss the hint of an upward lift to the corner of her lips.  She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but her shoulders no longer look like they’re sagging under some sort of impossible, terrifying weight.  “By the way, how’s your knee?”

Callum glances down.  “Oh, it’s fine.”

Rayla’s eyes narrow.

“I mean it!” says Callum.  “Just a bruise.”

“Can I take a look?” she says, and the words are almost shy.  Like she’s worried that Callum will take it as an insult.

“Oh, yeah,” says Callum instead.  “You’d probably know better than me whether or not I need to be worried about it.”

“Definitely,” says Rayla.  She gestures for Callum to sit on the ground and then kneels in front of him, gently rolling up the pants leg to take a look at his knee.

Ezran watches her poke and prod gently at the bruise, examining the swelling on his leg before frowning slightly in contemplation.

“You’ll be okay,” she decides eventually.  “But let me know if it becomes very difficult for you to walk.  There’s a poultice that—that Runaan taught me to make.”  She coughs, a belated attempt to hide the hitch in her words.  “It will help.  And Callum?”

“Yeah?”

“You really _aren’t_ useless.  Mages use primal orbs to help them channel their favored source, but they don’t _need_ them.  I mean, sure, they’re helpful.  But…you can practice,” she offers Callum a smile that almost seems comforting.  Gentle.  “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.  I know some draconic, so I should be able to help?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course,” says Rayla.  She clears her throat.  “I mean, it’s only in my best interest, after all.”

Callum chuckles.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I suppose so.”

It gives Ezran the courage to finally deposit Zym on Rayla’s lap.  Surprised, she makes a strange, squeak-like noise. 

“You guys are leaving me out!” he says accusatorily, plopping down on the ground in between them.

“Leaving you out of what?” says Callum indignantly.

“The family moment,” says Ezran, unabashedly leaning his head against Rayla’s shoulder.  She’s stiff: surprised, but, judging by the way that she starts to relax under him, not displeased. 

Callum is sputtering.  It isn’t until Ezran reaches out and tugs gently on his sleeve that he falls silent.  He sighs, but obediently sidles closer, pressing up gently against Ezran’s other side.

“There was no family moment,” Rayla tries, but there’s a layer of unsurety to her voice.

“Mm-hm,” says Ezran.  “I’m still cold.”

“I can get you a blanket,” Callum offers, but the words are half-hearted.  He’s enjoying the contact, enjoying being _close_.  Ezran can tell, so he doesn’t even bother responding.  Finally, Callum gives in, leaning in close and practically draping himself over his younger brother, smotheringly warm.

Bait is glowing contentedly in Ezran’s lap, Zym curled up tightly in Rayla’s.

Rayla and Callum are both still unsure, still hurting.  Ezran can practically feel it radiating off them.  It’s almost easy to mistake it as his own.  But it’s duller now—the sting of an injury not yet healed, but bandaged.

They’ll still need time before that pain fades to an ache, and then disappears entirely.  It isn’t perfect, but they have each other to lean on if they need it.  And, Ezran decides, for now, that’s more than enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i like...family fic. comments are appreciated if you liked it or just want to see me write more for the fandom!


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